Yellowstone: Inferno: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (The Yellowstone Series Book 2)

by Bobby Akart

  Jake entered the house with nothing on but his briefs. Mr. Pressley’s overalls were hung from a nail on the front porch to allow the ash to blow off in the wind. His camouflage hunting clothing had been washed and dried again, but the bloodstains from moving the dead bodies remained. Jake was anxious to get rid of the grim reminder of what had happened in those early morning hours.

  “Jake, I think I’m ready to go. Should we leave them some money? Maybe a note?”

  Jake nodded and sat at the kitchen table with a notepad he found in a drawer of the foyer table. At the top, it was imprinted with the inscription—for the one I love. He began writing.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Pressley,

  My name is Jake Wheeler and I am a law enforcement ranger from Yellowstone National Park. I came by your home in search of diesel fuel for our motor home and you weren’t here. I found the door unlocked and, although uninvited, I took a shower, ate your leftovers, and spent the night.

  That’s when the trouble started. There’s been a manhunt going on in the area, and the criminals came here to break into your home. There was some shooting, and none of them made it. You’ll find them in a pile out back. I’m sorry for the mess.

  I also fed and watered the horses; then I filled my motor home with diesel. I can only spare a few hundred dollars but will gladly send you more later.

  If you have any questions, please call or text me at (307) 250-7029. Text is better.

  I hope Mr. Pressley’s surgery went well.

  Jake

  He slid the notepad over to Ashby so she could read it. “Do you think that’s okay?”

  She read it and smiled. “It’s perfect. Do you think four hundred is enough?”

  “It’s more than enough for the diesel I took, but of course it won’t cover the damages from the shoot-out. Hopefully, insurance will.”

  Jake and Ashby stood, took a final look around the house, and pulled the front door, or what was left of it, closed. With clearing skies, they were anxious to hit the road again.

  Chapter 56

  Burns, Oregon

  Looking for fuel at the Pressley farm turned out to be the right call, although the unforeseen encounter with the anarchists had made it a little too adventuresome. After leaving the farm, they’d traveled ninety minutes when they came upon the town of Burns. As they approached the perimeter, they quickly learned the townsfolk didn’t take too kindly to strangers.

  Burns was just thirty miles from a political firestorm between the United States government, the Bureau of Land Management, and a group of people who’d taken over the headquarters of the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge just south of town.

  The occupiers, led by Ammon Bundy and his son, Cliven Bundy, brought armed supporters from around the country to protest the federal government’s resentencing of two Harney County ranchers, Dwight Hammond Jr. and his son Steven. The Hammonds had been found guilty of illegally setting fires on the federal property where their cattle grazed in the early part of the twenty-first century.

  After an appeals court overturned their short sentences of less than a year, a federal judge issued new sentences of five years to each man. This sparked outrage throughout the west.

  Armed protestors descended upon the small town of Burns and later aided the Bundys in occupying the refuge’s main building. They refused to leave until the Hammonds were released and the federal government’s policies were changed.

  Patriots from around the country joined the protest, establishing a secure perimeter around the refuge to prevent another Waco-style debacle in which the Clinton administration ordered tanks to attack the compound of David Koresh, resulting in the death of virtually everyone inside.

  One of the Bundy loyalists, fifty-five-year-old Robert LaVoy Finicum, served as a spokesman for the group, frequently appearing on national television during the standoff.

  On January 26, 2016, Finicum, Ammon Bundy, and others left the protective perimeter established to attend a public forum in nearby Grant County. Politicians, including the sheriff, and their constituents were interested in hearing the Bundys’ side of the story, so the forum was arranged to bring the issues out into the open.

  Oregon State Police and the FBI used the occasion to ambush the convoy of vehicles as they were en route to the public forum. When confronted, Finicum refused the orders to halt. Rather, he responded, “You kill me now. Go ahead. Put the bullet through me. I don’t care. I’m going to go meet the sheriff. You do as you damned well please.”

  So they did.

  Seven minutes later, the Oregon State Police fired at Finicum’s vehicle as it continued to the public forum. The truck plowed into a snowbank and became stuck. When Finicum exited the vehicle, he was shot and killed.

  Jake was vaguely familiar with the standoff because it had been in the news again several years ago when President Donald Trump issued a pardon to the Hammonds. Jake and Ashby were unaware that Burns was ground zero for the political turmoil. They knew now.

  At first, the deputies refused to let them pass through town. When Jake asked about an alternate route, he was told that was not available to him either. One of the deputies proceeded to tell Jake and Ashby the story of the standoff. During this time, a crowd began to gather around the Bounder and they were then subjected to questioning about the sandrail.

  Jake became nervous as he thought they might become embroiled in a criminal investigation over the anarchists. After twenty minutes of back-and-forth, the sheriff arrived, and Jake invited him in to the motor home to speak.

  “Sheriff, we don’t want any trouble. I’m sorry Harney County had to endure the things your deputy told us about, but we just need to get to my parents’ home in California.”

  “Young man,” said the elderly sheriff who’d recently been reelected, “I’ve got a duty to protect these folks and we don’t know you. The last time we opened our door to strangers, they were marching up and down our streets with their rifles and protest signs.”

  “Then escort us through—”

  “Or around,” Ashby interjected. “According to this map, we can take county road 205 south several miles and then pick up the highway on the other side of town. What’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t have the manpower, that’s what,” the sheriff fired back. “The state police pulled a bunch of my deputies to hunt down these fellas from Portland. Now Portland’s big-city problems have become my problem. I’ve got anarchists running all over the place to worry about.”

  Jake was losing patience. “Sheriff, you know who we are. You’ve seen our identification. We’re not criminals. Just travelers. You have your town blocked off, and I respect that. But you’ve got to let us go and seek an alternate route.”

  “Don’t press me, boy. I’ve got the governor’s martial law decree in my hip pocket. I’ll confiscate this whole rig and every gun you’ve got in here, starting with that M16 over there.”

  Jake was incredulous. “That’s federal government prop—!”

  Ashby intervened. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.” Then she took a chance. A very risky, but calculated, chance. “Sheriff, what if I told you that six of these bad guys were no longer a problem for you and the state police.”

  “What do you mean, young lady?”

  “I’m going out on a limb with you, Sheriff. I know you’ve had difficulty in the past, and we have no intention of adding to your current issues. In fact, sir, we’ve helped eliminate the problem, at least in part.”

  The sheriff’s face returned to its normal color as the redness receded. “I’m listening.”

  Ashby began to tell half-truths. “Here’s what happened, and I’m going to be completely honest with you because I think you’re a reasonable man who just wants to get a job done.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Do you know where Pressley farm is?”

  The sheriff nodded and replied, “Yes, of course. Good folks.”

  “We’d been warned by the National Guard of what was
going on when we started this way and, because Jake is with law enforcement, he kept his eyes open for signs of trouble. We saw four of these dune-buggy things turn into Pressley farm.”

  “Like the one you’re towing?”

  Jake interjected as he caught on to Ashby’s planned mea culpa. “It’s one of the four.”

  “Okay?” the sheriff said skeptically.

  Ashby continued. “Anyway, Jake became suspicious, so he followed them into the farm. When we came upon them, they were breaking into the farmhouse. You know, busting in the windows and the doors. Jake jumped out of the truck and hollered at them to stop. Not only did they laugh and continue, one of them took shots at us. If you look on the side of the motor home, you’ll see the bullet holes and notice the spare tire was used on the front.”

  “We were pinned down, Sheriff,” added Jake. “I had no choice but to defend us.”

  “Bottom line this for me,” the sheriff demanded.

  “There are six of these dead losers piled up at Pressley farm,” said Ashby without hesitation.

  He studied Jake. “You killed them all?”

  “Yes, sir. They had it coming.”

  The sheriff smiled and shrugged. “They sure did. Saved the state the time and expense of a trial.”

  Ashby picked up on the change in demeanor. “Sheriff, I told you the truth, so you can use this to your advantage. You know, put a feather in your cap. Rather than have another standoff situation like years ago, these bad guys were taken down quick and easy with no loss of life to your deputies or the Pressleys.”

  “I’ll need you two to provide a statement.”

  Ashby shook her head as she stared him in the eye. “No, sir. You don’t and we won’t. This was your operation, and congratulations should be given to the man who saved lives and put away half a dozen big-city anarchists. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  The sheriff thought for a moment and then stood. “I’ll make arrangements to have you escorted to the south of town. I’ll take care of that other matter with a couple of my trusted deputies who are long overdue for commendations.”

  Jake and Ashby shook hands with the sheriff, and fifteen minutes later, they were on the other side of town, quickly putting Burns in the rearview mirror.

  Chapter 57

  Near the California State Line

  Jake and Ashby kept pinching each other. Like two children who found something silly that made them laugh, the two grown adults reverted back to eight-year-olds. Ashby blamed Jake, but if the truth be told, it was Ashby who struck the initial blow. After they’d avoided Burns, and a possible jail cell, their trip was uneventful.

  Uneventful. As in a casual drive down the highway toward California. After a brief stop by a joint operation of the Oregon State Police and the CHiPs, an acronym for the California Highway Patrol, during which time Jake and Ashby swore the sandrail came with the motor home they’d purchased in Challis. They even offered up Brett’s phone number, knowing full well the pyroclastic flow had likely consumed Challis and all its residents.

  As darkness set upon them following the long drive into California, Jake made the mistake of using the common phrase just pinch me, which was often said when a person couldn’t believe something, typically good, was happening.

  Ashby did, rather hard, and seemed to take great delight in it. Jake tried to return the favor, but she pressed herself against the side of the motor home and kicked at his arm as he tried to reach her.

  Then she called a truce. It was a trick. When Jake wasn’t looking in her direction, she did it again.

  It was on at that point. After Ashby managed another pinch, Jake pulled the motor home to the side of the road, sending Ashby scampering to the back, completely disregarding her shoulder injury.

  In the moment, it didn’t matter, as the two needed to let off some nervous energy. Between the gun battle, the confrontation with the sheriff, and the concern that the other anarchists on the loose might recognize the sandrail they were towing, tensions had been high all day.

  The two new lovers found a way to relieve those tensions and started on the road again, with a formal pinky-swear promise to stop pinching.

  They were approximately two hundred thirty miles from the Mad House, but the treacherous, winding road through the mountains left them with a six-hour drive. The ash had all but disappeared as they entered the Cascade Range in Northern California.

  After studying the map, Ashby located a campground off Route 299, where they could park, have some of the sandwiches she’d made at the Pressleys’ home, and talk about their arrival at Jake’s place on the Mad River.

  Jake had popped the tops of their last two Blue Moon beers and handed one to Ashby. The two of them clinked bottles and took a sip.

  “I love NorCal, especially the redwoods,” Ashby began as she looked around them in the dimming daylight.

  Jake’s eyes were affixed on the massive mountain ahead of them. “I can’t believe we left one massive killer behind and here we sit at the base of Mount Shasta. We must be nuts.” He took another swig of beer and shook his head.

  “You’ve caught the bug,” Ashby said with a chuckle. “Studying volcanoes is addictive.”

  “I don’t need to study them. I just wanna get as far away as I can from them.”

  “I hate to tell you this, but the Earth’s covered with volcanoes. Some are active; others are not.”

  Jake pointed at Mount Shasta with the neck of his beer bottle. “What about old Shasta here? Is it overdue like Yellowstone?”

  “It is a potentially active stratovolcano,” Ashby replied. “It erupts about every six hundred years, with the last time being in the late seventeen hundreds.”

  “Good, I won’t be around in four hundred years.”

  Ashby finished her beer and pulled a blanket over her legs as the nighttime temperatures began to set in. The sun left an orangish glow above Mount Shasta and her sister volcanic cone, Shastina, just beyond it.

  She asked about their destination, trying to wrap her head around what the next phase of her life looked like. “Tell me about the Mad House. When was the last time you were there?”

  Jake thought for a moment. “Wow, I guess it was my second year of college at Humboldt. Mom asked me to come check on the place because there had been some minor earthquakes in the Cascades, and she wanted to make sure everything was fine.”

  “Did they use it often?”

  “No, especially after my father sold his company,” replied Jake.

  “Why did they keep it?”

  Jake shrugged. “Because they could. An investment. Who knows? Maybe Mom convinced him to leave it to me in his will. Lord knows, that’s all I’ll get, not that I care.”

  Ashby continued to make small talk. “They also have a home in Silicon Valley?”

  “Right, big gated community outside San Jose. Nice place. They kept it because my father traveled back to California frequently and hated hotel rooms. Come to think about it, the last time I was there was before I went to LA to be on Survivor. Boy, you think Yellowstone was bad, you should’ve heard the explosion at my parents’ house.”

  “I gather you didn’t work it out?”

  “Um, nope. I walked out, pulled out of the driveway, and flipped them off as I escaped to my new life.”

  Ashby became sullen as she looked down at the cool, wet grass. She missed her parents dearly and would give anything to speak with them one more time. When she didn’t say anything for a moment, Jake noticed that something was wrong.

  “Ashby, I’m a real jerk. I’m sorry. Here I am, railin’ on my family. It’s wrong and I understand why you’re upset. Really, I’m sorry.”

  Ashby wiped a tear away and reached for his hand. “You and I both lost. My parents died, and it kinda sounds like your parents abandoned you, when you think about it.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. I could’ve been less stubborn and tried to make things right, but so could my father. I secretly wished my mom would’ve intervened a
nd put her foot down. That never happened.”

  “You’ve got me now,” said Ashby as she squeezed his hand and gave him a sweet smile.

  A flock of wood ducks sailed over their heads and above the redwood forest until they were out of sight. Exhausted, the two went into the motor home, ready to turn the page on another strenuous day during the apocalypse.

  Chapter 58

  The Mad House

  Near Maple Creek, California

  The next day, the seventh following the eruption of Yellowstone, was full of excitement. Jake shared the pleasant memories of his time at the Mad House and provided Ashby as much detail as he could recall about the interior. He cautioned her that it had likely sat unoccupied for fifteen years or more. It was possible his younger brother used it from time to time, but not for the natural beauty of the surroundings or the outdoor activities like hunting and fishing. His younger brother was his father’s son, completely the opposite of Jake. Jake loved nature and the outdoors. His brother was a playboy who enjoyed spending daddy’s money. The two hadn’t spoken in many years.

  Jake crossed the bridge at the Mad River and turned down the long gravel road that ran parallel to the water. Ashby’s nose was pressed to the window, taking in the surroundings and watching the water pick up speed as their elevation dropped from time to time. She was in awe of the natural beauty of the river and the trees that rose high into the sky around it.

  “Almost there,” said Jake as he slowed down to avoid a few potholes. This was a county road but rarely maintained, as the only home, as far as Jake could remember, was the Mad House at the end.

  “You know,” began Ashby, “there are quite a few horror flicks that this reminds me of. Charlie Manson could be hanging out in these woods.”

  “He died a few years ago.”

  “Oh, yeah. Maybe his cousin? Like that Jason guy?”